Rehabilitation
by wsherlocksholmes
Summary: John Watson has returned from the war with PTSD and an alcoholism problem that lands him in rehab, where he meets the mysterious Sherlock Holmes. AU
1. It's Mental

Chapter One: It's Mental

"Iraq or Afghanistan?"

He felt a shudder run through his body as images of bullets and grenades flashed through his mind. He turned towards the source of the voice: a tall man with thick dark curls and piercing grey eyes. "I'm sorry?" John asked the man.

"Iraq or Afghanistan?" the man repeated, looking intently at John.

"Afghanistan," John replied. "How did you...?"

"I read you."

"Read me?"

"Yes, I read you."

"Oh?" John said, confused.

"If you're wondering how I guessed, it wasn't a guess. Really it's quite obvious. You walk with quite a limp, as though you had previously been shot in the leg. I bet your psychologist thinks it's likely mental. She's right, by the way. Don't fret though. It's quite common with PTSD. And my guess would be that's what triggered your alcoholism. That's what you're here for, isn't it? Alcoholism?"

"Yeah," John murmured, taken aback.

"Right. And the timing made war the likely trigger. Plus it can be seen in the way you carry yourself. The way you observe the world around you. The way loud sounds make you jump. You're a soldier."

"Doctor, actually," John corrected. "But for the military, yes. And I did see quite a good amount of combat."

"Clearly," the man corrected. "Enough to land you here."

"Can I ask why you're here?" John asked of the curious man.

"Ecstasy, cocaine, the usual," the man replied simply, turning his hands toward the ceiling with a slight shrug as though participating in drug habits was a nonchalant matter. "Well really, I'm here because my brother forced me. Used his government powers to land me here. An abuse of privilege, if you ask me."

"Who are you?" John wondered aloud.

"Sherlock Holmes," the man said, standing to introduce himself and extending a hand.

John grasped his hand and shook in greeting, all the while remaining wary of this unusual character. There were many unusual characters in rehab, but it was clear that this man was far different from all the rest. It could be seen in the intelligent sparkle in his eyes that suggested he knew more secrets to the world than one should possess.

"John Watson," he replied. "This is my first day out of the initial isolation phase."

"Congratulations, John," Sherlock responded, staring him in the eye. "Your handshake suggests you're trying to establish dominance, which is respectable, but you should know that I am always the alpha. My superior intellect insists I am the most suitable choice for leadership, since I am simply above the rest of the average minded population."

John raised an eyebrow, wondering what the cocaine had done to this man's brain, and, in effect, his ego. _How arrogant_, he thought to himself. But he also got the sense that this Sherlock character wasn't trying to be arrogant. He truly believed he was a superior genius.

"Yes, well, I better be going," John said, ready to get away from this strange character. He turned around to head to the cafeteria, estimating in his head how long it would take for him to get out of the rehab center and go home.

He only moved a few feet before he heard Sherlock's voice again. "Aren't you forgetting something?" Sherlock called to him.

John turned around to see Sherlock holding John's cane in his hand. He had propped it against the wall to talk to the stranger and had forgotten to pick it back up. "Right, thanks," John muttered as he quickly grabbed it and hobbled away.

"Mental, I told you," Sherlock reminded the retreating figure, then went back to reading the encyclopedia he had been looking at before John had entered the room. John looked back once, shaking his head in amusement.


	2. You're Amused

Chapter Two: You're Amused

The first day at the cafeteria was terrible. It was like high school all over again, with John being the new kid with nowhere to sit and no clique to belong to. He found a table alone and silently munched on his sandwich, growing more anxious to speed through the rehabilitation program and get out. But he couldn't help the nagging voice in his head begging for a drink. His hands shook slightly, desperate for alcohol to calm his nerves.

The next day John tried to immerse himself with the other patients, like his therapist suggested. She promised it would help him get through the program faster. John sucked in his breath and approached the nearest table, tray in hands.

"Hey, I'm John," he said.

There were four men at the table. One was wiry with thick glasses and a constant twitch. The man next to him looked nearly lifeless, staring blankly at the barely touched food in front of him. The third man had bloodshot eyes and had repeatedly stabbed his tray with his plastic fork, leaving noticeable marks. The final man was large and bald, with thick eyebrows and an angry glare that he fixed on John.

"Do you mind if I sit with you?" John asked, forcing a smile.

The man continued to glare at John, his eyes unwavering.

"Um, well, if you don't mind, I'll just put my tray down here..." John began, moving to place his food on the table near the thick glasses man. The large man let out a primordial growl and bloodshot-eyes man began a frenzied attack at his tray with his knife. John backed away quickly, stumbling into someone who had been behind him.

"I'm so sorr-" he began, turning around. "You," he said, recognizing the curly haired man as the strange Sherlock Holmes he had met the day before.

"Me," Sherlock said in his deep baritone voice. "You don't want to sit there. They're the angry addicts. You're not particularly angry, are you." It was more of a statement than a question, and John had the suspicion that he was being "read" again.

"No, not angry."

"Sit with me," Sherlock said. _Another command_, John noted.

"Why?"

"To begin with, you clearly have poor judgment of character skills. You'll get yourself stabbed with a plastic knife. You're desperate to immerse yourself. Your therapist probably told you it's necessary. They all say that. You're going through withdrawal, but you're not prone to fits of outburst, like many people here are. And your therapist was right, they do seem to place value on 'immersion.' And I tend to repel many. They don't handle my brilliance too well. But unlike most, you didn't throw anything at me or curse me out or something along those lines like everyone else so far. You're patient. Our first encounter makes you a promising candidate for my associate."

"Associate?"

"Well, yes, I want to get out of here too. I need a convincing 'friend' before they'll approve my release. You should know I don't have friends. Here or anywhere. They're unnecessary. But desperate times call for desperate measures, so I am willing to offer my services as your associate so we can both get out of here faster."

John tightened his eyebrows together. "Do you always do that?"

"Do what?"

"I don't know, excessively analyze _everything_."

"Yes."

"Oh, okay. You're crazy."

"But you're impressed."

"I-"

"I can read you, John. Now let's stop lingering and eat already. It's spaghetti day. I like spaghetti day." Sherlock guided John to an isolated table at the back of the cafeteria.

John followed, a few steps behind, trying to go over everything this man had just said to him in his head. He sat down, still caught in thought, when Sherlock spoke again.

"Remember, Sherlock Holmes. When your therapist asks again. You made a new friend named Sherlock Holmes."

"The cocaine addict."

Sherlock made a face. "Well you can leave that part out, but yes, the cocaine addict."

John smirked and looked up from his plate to see a smile tugging at the corner of Sherlock's mouth. The stoic demeanor had cracked, John noticed with some pride.

"What?" Sherlock asked. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"It's just... you find me amusing, don't you?"

"What?"

"I can read you, Sherlock," John replied with a grin.

Sherlock went back to his emotionless expression. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said flatly, then broke into a grin.


	3. More Than That

Chapter 3: More Than That

"It's movie night today."

John opened his eyes, squinting, with deep wrinkles forming in his forehead. "Wha-?"

"Movie night. Today. We're going."

"Sherlock, it's six in the bloody morning! Why are you waking me up, and how did you find my room?"

"Well finding your room was quite simple, really. The newest alcoholic patients were being placed in Hall C recently, and there are no doors because this is a rehab facility, and judging by the way you dress you're rather organized, which eliminated-"

John let out a groan. "I take it back. I don't really care how you found me. Can I go back to sleep now?"

Sherlock still stood in the doorway. "Well, yes," he said simply. "But don't forget, movie night."

"What movie?" John mumbled into his pillow, shutting his eyes and begging in his head for Sherlock to go away.

"Probably Harry Potter. They play a lot of Harry Potter here. It doesn't matter what movie really. We just have to attend. Together. To show 'progress.'"

"Fine, fine," John said. "Now let me sleep."

"Remember."

"Yes, Sherlock, I'll remember! Now let me sleep!"

"Okay, but just this once. We'll have to work on that."

"What?"

"Your sleeping. You sleep too much. Shows low energy, low desire. Not good if you want to get out of here."

"Do I have to wake up at six in the bloody morning then?"

"Well I wake around five, but I'll be courteous and wake you at six."

"Courteous. Right. Bye, Sherlock," John said with some force.

"I'll see you tonight!" Sherlock called back as he left the room. John just grumbled into his pillow in reply.

When John finally headed to the cafeteria for breakfast, stomach growling and mind thirsty for a beer, he was surprised to see Sherlock sitting alone at a table with a tray before him as if it wasn't there at all. John grabbed his food and headed over to the strange man, who sat with his hands templed in front of his face.

"Sherlock?" John questioned as he sat down, abruptly breaking the man's concentration.

"Hmm?" Sherlock asked, his eyes still holding a far-off glaze. "You okay?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"You were... just staring off into the distance."

"I was thinking."

"About?"

"You really were shot, weren't you?" John's face slackened. "But not in the leg, no. The shoulder?"

"Yeah," John replied, shocked. "How'd you know?"

"The left one?"

"Good guess."

"It wasn't a guess."

"You had a fifty-fifty shot."

"It wasn't a guess."

John stabbed his fork into his stack of pancakes. "Yeah. Left shoulder."

"You don't have your cane today."

"What?"

"You don't have your cane today," Sherlock pointed out. "Mental."

John sighed. "Are you eating or is the food just for show?"

"I was waiting for you," Sherlock said plainly.

John was taken aback. "Why?"

"Keeping up appearances, John. Friends should eat breakfast together. Now pass the syrup."

Another command. John almost smirked. It was like being in the army all over again. With better food this time.

"So what about you?" John asked through a mouthful of yogurt.

"What about me?"

"What's your story?"

"Don't ask questions, John."

"What?" John proclaimed. "You analyze my whole life story and I can't know anything about you?"

"The war is hardly your whole life story," Sherlock whispered. "You should remember that, John. You're so much more than just that."

John didn't say anything. He looked down at his tray instead. Sometimes it was hard to remember he was more than just a broken soldier, especially when he was plagued with nightmares of bullets shredding him apart, leaving him as nothing more than another bloody corpse like the many he had seen. He shuddered silently, wanting to dull his feelings in alcohol once again.


	4. Flashbacks

Chapter Four: Flashbacks

"Let's go."

"Sherlock, we still have half an hour."

"Excitement. Energy. C'mon John! Keeping up appearances!"

John groaned. "Five more minutes."

"No. Get out of bed. Now."

John covered his head with a pillow. He didn't want to see some stupid movie with an erratic cocaine addict. He wanted sleep. And maybe a beer or two.

"There will be pizza," Sherlock prompted.

John sat up. He was missing the taste of pizza. "Alright," he caved. He followed Sherlock down a maze of hallways to find a room set up with plastic chairs and a projector.

Sherlock sat in the front and pulled John down next to him. John grumbled his protest but obliged. He sniffed the air, wanting pizza and sleep. And alcohol. His hands shook slightly from withdrawal. He looked over to see Sherlock sitting perfectly still.

"How do you manage the withdrawal symptoms?" he asked.

Sherlock cast him a sideways glance. "I just deal with them."

"But the cravings..."

"Everyone has cravings. Just ignore them. There aren't any drugs in here anyway."

"And the headaches and nausea and shaking?"

"Will pass eventually."

John willed his hands to calm, but to no avail. "It's difficult," he whispered, mostly to himself.

Sherlock turned to face him completely. "John Watson, you were in Afghanistan. You were a medical doctor who saw things no man should ever have to see and you survived. You were shot. You survived. You are here and you will survive. You underestimate your own strength."

John bit his lip. "Thanks, Sherlock."

"For what?"

"For the support."

"I was just stating facts. Now shut up, the movie's about to start. Remember to pretend to look interested."

Sherlock was right. It was another Harry Potter film. John sat through most of it, mildly bored. He had seen it before. Then suddenly a wand flashed with bright color and his mind was transported back in time.

There was a flash of light. A grenade went off. John collapsed to the ground with a heavy thud. He scrambled around, searching for his gun. The sound of bullets and shouts was deafening. He turned to his side and saw a charred body beside him. John gasped as he struggled onto unsteady legs, desperate to run away.

"John!" a voice called out to him. He had to reach the voice. "John!" He trudged on wobbly legs towards the sound of the voice. He had to get there. It was his job. He was needed. The voice grew louder.

"John!" Sherlock's face loomed in front of him as he snapped out of his flashback.

"Sh-Sherlock?" he stuttered, snapping his head about. He was no longer in the desert, but a room of patients casting curious glances at him as doctors surrounded his side.

"John, calm down. You have to calm down."

John's hands were shaking and his throat ached. He had probably been screaming. That was how his sister Harry found him, screaming in a flashback with empty bottles around him. That was how he ended up here, in rehab.

"I... the war," he began.

"I know, John. I know. Look at me though, okay? Just look at me."

He looked up into the urgent grey eyes.

"Okay, now concentrate on your breathing. In. Out. In. Out."

John focused on the rise and fall of his chest, timing it with Sherlock's. An arm tugged at him. It was his psychiatrist.

"C'mon John," she said softly, pulling him away with her and out of the room. John followed, his head pounding too hard to concentrate. He glanced backwards over his shoulder and saw Sherlock standing, watching, as he passed through the doorway.


	5. Everyone Has Nightmares

Chapter Five: Everyone Has Nightmares

John hated spending another week back in the isolation phase. He hadn't made progress. He had gone backwards instead. He hated it here, and he hated his cravings. He hated the nightmares he had and the withdrawal symptoms he went through. He hardly slept anymore without being plagued with terrifying visions. His eyes were bleary and bloodshot when he entered the cafeteria.

"John," a voice said softly behind him. Sherlock's voice.

John turned around with a sigh. He was slightly embarrassed over his outburst the last time he had seen Sherlock. "Hi," he mumbled, staring down at his tray.

Sherlock looked him over quickly, making John feel even more self conscious. Then he spoke up. "I heard you were coming back today. I saved you a seat." He looked in the direction of the table he always occupied, alone in the back corner.

John looked up, slightly surprised. He hadn't expected this to happen. He had imagined Sherlock shunning him for his breakdown. Insisting he wasn't good enough to help him get out. John imagined he would be alone again, back at step one. But here was Sherlock, offering to lead him back to their usual seat. Like nothing had happened. John smiled, grateful.

He swirled his spoon through his bowl of cereal, barely eating it. "Sherlock," he said after some time.

"Hmm?" Sherlock replied through a mouthful of food.

John sighed. "Please. How do you do it? You make everything seem easy. Like the cravings don't bother you. I don't understand."

"I don't think the cravings are the biggest problem you're facing right now," Sherlock said slowly. "I think maybe... you need to come to terms with what happened in the war. Your nightmares are holding you back because you haven't made peace with your past."

John squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. "It was really bad," he whispered. "The memories... they haunt me. I don't want to remember them but I do."

Sherlock looked at John with his steel grey eyes. "John, it's going to get better. I promise."

"How can you promise that? You don't know that for certain!"

"But I know you," Sherlock pointed out. "You're John Watson. You're strong and determined. You were an army doctor. You saved lives. And you're going to save your own too."

"How?" John asked. "Sherlock, how do I stop the nightmares?"

"I don't know," Sherlock admitted. "I'm trying to figure that out still myself."

John looked at him with wide eyes. "You have nightmares too?"

"Don't we all?" Sherlock asked softly.

John nodded slowly and went back to eating his cereal. Even the stoic Sherlock Holmes had nightmares. He was almost finished with breakfast and ready to go his separate ways from Sherlock when the other man spoke up.

"Who was it?"

"Excuse me?" John asked.

"Who did you lose in the war?"

"A lot of people," John replied, his voice hard. He didn't want to discuss the war.

"Yes, but who specifically? Who's the one that left you this way?"

John hesitated. "My... my best friend. Kevin. We had grown up together, spent our whole lives together, enlisted together... and we should have gone home together. But he didn't make it. He died, on my operating table. I couldn't save him, Sherlock." John looked up and saw that Sherlock's figure was blurry. It was then that he realized he was crying.

"John," Sherlock whispered. "John, it's not your fault. You can't blame yourself."

John hadn't realized he blamed himself for Kevin's death until Sherlock pointed it out. Sherlock was right. "He shouldn't have gone out that day," John admitted. "We were having an argument. A stupid argument over football. He got annoyed and offered to go out with the next patrol. Someone stepped on a land mine. He died on my table."

"John, it was his choice to go out. You didn't force him."

"But he went out because we had been arguing!"

"Over football? John, that's hardly a reason for one to leave in a huff. More likely, he was having a bad day with other things on his mind. It really isn't your fault."

John shuddered. "But it doesn't feel that way."

"Have you told your therapist?" Sherlock asked kindly. "Maybe this is something she can help you with?"

John shut down. "I don't want to talk about it."

"I know you don't want to, but you need to. It will help you. You want to get better, don't you?"

"If you're such a bloody expert why the hell are you still here?" John fumed.

Sherlock's lips tightened into a straight line. "Because I'm a cocaine addict and a sociopath and I tend to rub people the wrong way, which makes it that much harder to get out of here. Oh, and my brother is paying a nice sum of money to keep me here and I happen to have some nightmares of my own."

"Sherlock, I'm sorry," John said, realizing his outburst.

Sherlock waved a hand. "It's fine."

"I didn't mean..."

"I know, John. Please. Shut up now." He smirked.

John almost laughed.


End file.
